


Slow Burn

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It, Happy Ending, M/M, Sex Pollen, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 22:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Martin’s fancied Jon for years. But when he finds a romance novel among Gertrude’s possessions, his feelings grow rather more heated.





	Slow Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salamander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamander/gifts).



The world was ending, and Jon was acting weird. Not that Jon hadn’t always been a bit odd. Kind of had to be, to work here. But he was being…nice. Too nice, not that Jon wasn’t nice, but he wasn’t really nice like this. It was more a thing he did when he remembered, not a regular flow of sandwiches and cups of tea, and the odd painful attempt at small talk, questions falling reluctantly from his lips while he worried the hole in his sleeve. Not that Martin minded. It was just, well. A bit spooky. 

And now Martin was going through Gertrude’s boxes, and Jon couldn’t seem to stop hovering. 

“Oh, sorry,” Martin said, as he backed into Jon for the third time. As much as he liked to spend time with Jon, it was honestly getting a bit annoying. They had work to do, a world to save. And Jon trusted him, didn’t he? He should just ask. There was probably a reason.

Martin met Jon’s eyes. They were unusually wide, his expression oddly nervous. Why would he be nervous? Maybe it was best to just let him be. Let him have a break. There was even more grey in his hair now than a year ago, and the lines around his eyes and pressed into his forehead were too deep for someone a little younger than Martin. 

“Do you need something, Martin?” Jon said. He hadn’t looked away. Neither had Martin. And just like that, he flushed, and hurriedly turned to another box, opening it and picking up the first thing inside.

A book.

Behind him, he heard Jon shuffling closer, fingers dragging idly over one of the bent cardboard boxes. But he didn’t turn around. There was something a bit strange about the book. Because unlike all the other books and journals they’d found, there was nothing particularly old or ominous about it. Instead, two figures embraced on a garish pink cover, with the words _Slow Burn_ emblazoned above them.

“Is that a romance novel?” Jon said, like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Gertrude, well. I never knew her well, but from her tapes I wouldn’t have thought her the type.”

“People can surprise you, you know. Tim used to read them, sometimes. Mindless escapism, he always said, was sometimes just what you need.” 

“Really? I—I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

Silence fell between them, and Martin’s hands tightened around the book, bending the cover slightly. He was sure they were both thinking of Tim now. He probably didn’t read romance anymore.

“But even if Gertrude did have some unexpected hobbies,” Jon said, still sounding distinctly unconvinced, “why would she store a novel here? Unless—” 

Martin opened the front cover. And stamped there, so out of place it almost seemed impossible, was a bookplate. _From the Library of Jurgen Leitner._

Before Martin could fully process what he had in his hands, Jon tore the book away, their fingers brushing briefly as he tossed it aside like it had burned him. 

“Did you feel anything?” Jon said, reaching out and grasping Martin’s shoulder. That was another weird thing that was happening. The touching. Jon had seemed to be doing it a lot lately. 

“I—” He glanced over at the fallen book and flexed his fingers. They felt itchy, tingly, and almost warm. But it was probably just psychosomatic, the fear from coming so close to reading a Leitner getting to him. Nothing to make Jon worry over. “No, nothing.”

Jon hesitated, then said, “Me neither.” He squeezed Martin’s shoulder, and for a moment, Martin almost thought Jon was going to hug him. But that would be ridiculous. “Just be more careful, Martin. Please. I need you—I need everyone for the fight ahead.” 

Then he let go. That’d be the end of it, then. Martin flexed his hands again, and hissed at the surge of heat, almost like a burn, bringing his fingers to his mouth to suck before thinking better of it. He was about to reassure Jon again that nothing was wrong when Jon reached out, grabbing his hand and bringing it towards his face.

Again, Martin’s mind supplied an impossible fancy. Jon, instead of simply turning his hand over and staring at it quizzically, would bring it his mouth, soothing the burn with his lips, his tongue—

“No visible damage. But it hurt, didn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Martin said, “it felt almost like my hand was on fire.” 

He covered his mouth in shock. The words had just slipped out, almost like they’d been dragged from him, like Jon—

“I’m so sorry, Martin. That was, I didn’t meant to do that.” He dropped Martin’s hand.

“No, it’s okay, I was just surprised. Really it’s no big deal.”

“It is.” Jon looked miserable, and as much as his presence had been bothering Martin before, he didn’t want Jon to leave like this. “I should go. Get back to work. Bring the book to Artefact Storage. And please, Martin. Don’t touch it.”

With one last lingering glance, as unreadable as before, he exited the closet where they’d stored Gertrude’s items. And Martin was left with nothing but a book that probably wanted to kill him, and the feeling that he’d done something very, very wrong.

*

In the days that followed the tingling didn’t go away, but it didn’t really get any worse. If tingly fingers was all he got from a Leitner, then Martin was counting himself lucky. Less lucky was the fact that in stark contrast to his earlier behavior, Jon now seemed to be avoiding him. Was he angry about the book? After all, he’d told Martin to be careful before, and he hadn’t really listened. If that were it, it’d be nice if Jon could just come out and say it. But then he was under a lot of stress. 

Martin stared down at the stack of statements on the desk, the words blurring on the page. Sleep had proved elusive, lately. Not that he’d slept well in a long time. But the end of the world, well. It got to a person, and it seemed to be getting to Martin. Sleep would come, though, once they saved the world. For now, he needed to get back to work.

As he scrawled down notes, places to check and people to research, he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. Like someone was watching. No, not like. The prickling subsided, leaving warmth in its wake. Jon was standing in the door right now, staring at him, nails digging into the wooden molding that framed it. He sat there, frozen. The feeling was one of complete certainty, that Jon was there, bringing a pen to his mouth to chew nervously. All Martin had to do was look, and then he’d know if he were right. So easy, just to turn and see.

The tingling in his hands intensified, and he clenched them into fists. Just look, Martin. But he didn’t. He stared down at the page as Jon sighed inaudibly, and turned to leave, like he’d never been there at all.

Martin looked. The door was empty, but his heart still raced. Had he imagined the whole thing? That must be it. Lack of sleep, thing got hazy. And he thought about Jon more than he probably should. Maybe it was a sign of something. Guilt over messing with the Leitner. He should apologize, clear the air between them. Then things could go back to normal, or as normal as they ever were here.

*

When he arrived with tea, Jon was waiting. Not recording, not reading. Just waiting, leaning against his desk, his head drooping and hair falling into his face. Martin’s hands itched with the desire to push it away. But they were full with tea, and even if Jon had been a bit friendlier lately, he still probably wouldn’t like that. So instead Martin cleared his throat.

Jon looked up slowly, not seeming surprised at all to see Martin. He held out a hand for the tea, and Martin took a tentative step into the room. As he passed the cup over, their hands brushed for the briefest moment. 

It was like putting his hand into a fire. Martin recoiled, clutching his hand to his chest. A crash rang out, the mug shattering on the floor. Before Martin could react, Jon was on his knees, gingerly picking up the largest shards and placing them in the palm of his trembling hand. 

“I’m sorry, Martin, that was careless of me.”

Martin dropped to his knees, picking up on of the remaining shards.

“No, it was my fault, I thought you had it.”

“I thought I did as well,” Jon said. He reached for the bin next to his desk, dragging it over and dumping the shards.

As Martin reached for the remaining bit of ceramic, Jon’s hand fell over his, palm hot against his skin. Martin didn’t move. Neither did Jon. He’d dreamed of something like this once. Or well, more than once. Their hands touching, that feeling of connection, of warmth. And then Jon would smile, and Jon would apologize, and they’d go on with their days. But there’d be just that little bit more between them.

But this wasn’t like that. Jon’s breathing was shallow, his cheeks flushed. And between them wasn’t the glow of human warmth. He hadn’t—how could it be like this? This unbearable, overwhelming longing, to keep touching Jon, to touch more, to run his hands over the exposed skin at Jon’s wrist, slipping under his sleeve, and then further still. If only they kept touching, he knew this feeling would go on, and he’d escape this heat.

A small noise escaped his throat, and Jon looked up with a start. His eyes seemed distant, unfocused. Then he pulled away abruptly, standing and leaving Martin’s hand burning in his wake.

“I’m going to get a towel,” Jon said, not meeting his eyes, all while rubbing the hand that had touched Martin’s. “No need to stay, I’ll deal with it.”

Martin stared at the door for a minute, anchored to the spot. And then he stood, brushed himself off, and fled without a backward glance. 

*

The fire spread, as fires were wont to do. A week passed, the heat slowly eating its way up his arms, and then once it reached his shoulders, downward through his torso, and rising to his face. The tenth day after he’d touched the book, he felt so bad he thought he must just be sick. A coincidence, all of it, that he’d touched the book when already coming down with something. What he needed now was bed rest. So he texted Jon, telling him he was fine. Just a fever, that was all. Then he turned over and tried to get some rest.

But sleep eluded him, and the heat only grew. It hadn’t been noticeable at first, the spread. But it was getting faster, and he could feel it flowing past his waist. He’d long since removed his shirt, skin too hot and sensitive for the cheap fabric to be comfortable. One of his hands ran idly over his chest. It seemed to help, if only a little, each path his fingers drew a momentary release. 

As the heat went lower, his hand followed, down his stomach to the waist to his pants. He groaned, fingers tightening on the elastic band as it spread to his cock. It wasn’t even like he was aroused, not really. It was just so hot. 

But maybe that would help. His fingers slipped below his waistband, pushing the fabric aside, making a fist around the inflamed skin. Like his chest, it felt better when he held it, and as he began to stroke, the strange heat was replaced with the normal ache of arousal. He let his head fall back in the pillow, watching his cock grow hard through half-lidded eyes. 

Then his phone rang, and shook him from his daze. 

He hit answer before even checking who it was, then saw Jon’s name glowing there in stark white letters. Martin fell back on the pillow, covering his eyes in horror and bringing the phone to his ear, all while trying to ignore the way his cock still throbbed. 

“Hi Jon,” he said. His throat was dry, his voice coming out in a rasp. At least Jon would believe he was sick, sounding like this.

“Martin,” Jon said, followed by a sigh. He sounded relieved. Why would he sound relieved?

“You got my text, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. But I just needed to hear your voice.”

For a moment, Martin was stunned into silence. It was the sort of thing he’d imagine Jon saying, but not the sort of thing he’d ever actually say. But there it was. He cleared his throat, struggling for a response, before settling on, “Why?”

“Because last time you texted you were sick, Martin, you were almost eaten by worms.” A faint edge of sarcasm laced the words, but that was just Jon.

Martin flushed with pleasure, then felt an answering pang from his cock, which had remained hard throughout. And the heat, the heat, he needed to touch, so he reached down with his free hand, wrapping his fingers around it again. 

“Martin? Are you there?” 

Martin dropped the phone, and turned over, groaning into his pillow. What the hell was he doing? This was just sick. He couldn’t help that he cared for Jon, but he’d never do something like this. 

And yet he had. He picked up the phone again, stomach roiling. 

“Sorry. I didn’t think. I should’ve called.” 

“No! I mean, no, I wasn’t—I was worried. That’s all. I’m glad you’re fine. Or will be fine. How are you feeling?”

Martin shifted, then mashed his face into the pillow, hoping it’d be enough to muffle his groan as his oversensitive cock rubbed against the rough sheets.

“Better. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Under different circumstances, he would’ve done anything to keep Jon talking. He’d always loved Jon’s voice. In fact, it was probably the first thing he had loved. Oh, not the way Jon had scolded and sneered at him. But sometimes he’d stand outside his office, and listen to him read the statements. And as awful as they were, there’d been something almost soothing about it. Like poetry. 

“Right,” Jon said. “Well, I’d better get back to work. Do get better, Martin.”

It sounded stuffy, and more a command than a request. And despite everything, it was all Martin could do not to laugh. Good old Jon. 

“I will.” Before his willpower failed, he tapped the red icon, and shoved the phone aside. It was only then he realized that while Jon had been talking, he’d felt better, if only a little. 

But now it all came rushing back full force. Martin heaved himself to his feet and dashed for the shower, turning it on the coldest setting. But even that did nothing to ease his erection. So in the end, he gave in, water slicked hand stroking until he came in the shower, trying desperately, hopelessly, not to think of Jon.

*

Martin showed up late to work the next day. Not because he’d been sleeping. No, he’d barely slept at all, his skin hotter than ever, the tingling almost needlelike as his clothing rubbed against it. But because he needed to do something other than lying in bed, trying not to think about Jon. Work was a distraction, and an important one, what with the end of the world and all. 

But the distraction wouldn’t work if he saw Jon, so when he came in he made sure to tell everyone he saw that he was still a bit under the weather, probably not contagious, but best not to take a chance. And after he’d made sure everyone knew to avoid him, he tucked himself in the farthest corner of the Archives, and set to work as best he could.

And it went fine, for a few hours. Not that Martin’s work was anywhere near its peak, not with the fire that had consumed every inch of his skin. But he managed, keeping his hands firmly gripped on the edge of the desk, only lifting one to turn the page. He was certain it was the book now, but it didn’t seem to be life threatening. So for now, he’d be fine. They’d deal with it once the Unknowing was over.

As usual, the world didn’t see fit to cooperate. He almost missed the click of the door, would have, except for the sudden easing of the burning sensation. For a moment, he felt relief. Then he realized what it had to be, and looked up. 

Jon stood there, hands clasped before him so tight his knuckles were white. 

“Basira says you’re still not feeling well.” He wasn’t looking at Martin, not really. Just staring at the wall behind him. 

Every inch of Martin’s being wanted to get up, wanted to run to him, just wanted to—he didn’t even know, anymore. He’d half risen before he caught himself, and sat back down, digging his fingers into the desk.

“Oh, it’s not so bad. The end of the world is too important, and I’m on the mend.”

Jon took a step towards him, and Martin stood abruptly, chair clattering to the ground. He held up his arm, palm facing Jon.

“Best to keep away. Can’t have you getting sick.” He gave a little laugh, but it sounded hollow even to his ears.

Another step, and another. Why wasn’t Jon keeping away? Blood pounded in Martin’s ears, but he didn’t move, didn’t try to get away, not even when Jon walked around the desk, and pressed the back of his hand against Martin’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” Jon said, letting his hand drop back to his side. 

His cheeks were red, and before Martin could think better of it, he reached out to cradle one in his palm. 

“You are too.” 

Instead of pulling away, saying it was against office protocol, that the world was ending, that he wasn’t interested anyway, Jon leaned into the touch, eyes falling shut. And Martin could never deny him anything. Helplessly, he began to rub his thumb over Jon’s cheekbone, and was rewarded with a sigh. 

Then Jon’s eyes shot open, and he stumbled back. “I apologize, that was inappropriate of me.” 

“Don’t apologize. That’s my job.” 

Jon actually laughed at that, thin and high. Martin reached forward, wrapping his fingers around Jon’s wrist, pushing away his sleeve and feeling instead a smooth expanse of skin. 

“Martin,” Jon said. Then he was turning back, pressing his forehead against Martin’s, one hand slipping under his shirt, pressing hard against the small of his back. 

Martin shoved Jon’s sleeve further up, one hand now wrapped around his forearm, his other pressing the back of Jon’s neck. Every spot they touched, it was a balm, the relief from the heat he’d been looking for all this time. And all it had taken was this? Martin stared at Jon, unfocused as Jon’s other hand joined the first, drifting slowly up his back. His lips were so close. What would it feel like, to kiss him? Would it feel as wonderful as this?

Jon pulled back, and for a moment, Martin considered begging. He needed this, whatever this was, and Jon needed it too. And why shouldn’t they let it consume them? But Jon wasn’t leaving, instead tugging his ratty jumper over his head. Martin couldn’t join him fast enough, tearing off his own shirt and dropping it onto the desk. Jon’s sleeve had caught on his wrist, but he didn’t seem to care, letting it dangle there as he pressed himself against Martin, flush against his chest, lips at his throat, the nip of teeth maybe enough to drain whatever this fever was. 

A crash rang out, and Martin stumbled back, tripping over his fallen chair. Jon looked equally spooked. And oh god, what had they been doing? What had they being about to do? As he slowly got his feet, he reached for his shirt, clutching it in front of him like a shield. They should talk about it. They need to talk about it. But all they did was stare, until there was a thud, followed by a curse, and Basira calling Jon’s name. 

Whatever remained of the spell they were under, that was enough to break it. Jon put his jumper back on, almost running from the room while muttering something about the end of the world. All Martin could do was right his chair, then collapse into it, shirt still bunched in his hands. 

And of course Jon would leave the door open, and Melanie would choose that moment to walk by and stare through the open door. 

“Now that’s just desperate,” she said, before continuing on her way. 

Martin groaned, and buried his head in his hands.

*

The next day Jon was absent, and Martin felt worse than ever. At first, a thrill of terror had run through him, that maybe the flames had consumed him. But Elias said he’d called, that he was simply under the weather. No need to worry. 

When he’d said the last, his gaze had lingered on Martin. Did Elias want him to go to Jon? Stay away? He almost asked, but Elias was gone before he could muster the courage. So Martin sat at his desk, and tried to work. 

More than once as the hours ticked on he was tempted to go to Jon. As he listlessly turned the page of the fifth book on circuses he’d read, he found he couldn’t even lie to himself anymore. It wasn’t just to make sure he was okay. 

He closed his eyes, and for just a moment, let himself imagine. Walking up to Jon’s door, and Jon greeting him gladly. Or no. That wasn’t how it would go. The second the door opened, they’d kiss, and Jon would push his shirt aside and drag fingers over his skin, the only thing that would ever quench this flame. Then he’d press his lips against Jon’s fevered forehead and run his fingers down his spine. And more, dragging his tongue over Jon’s chest, and lower still, putting out the fire that burned for them both. 

A car honked as it sped towards him. Martin flailed, frantically scurrying for the pavement. When had he left? Where was he? He turned, and for a moment his vision swam, waves of heat obscuring the building before him. But it was the Institute. He hadn’t gone far. He just needed to return to work, to fight this. Just a little bit longer.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, and when darkness fell Martin staggered out of the building on heavy, tender legs. It was only when he realized he’d gotten on the train to Jon’s flat that he shook himself out of his stupor. He needed to focus. 

When he finally made it home, he locked the door and immediately began undressing. Every brush of cloth on his skin was torture, and he needed—he needed. He shook his head, dropping it all on a pile and collapsing on top of his duvet, burying his face in the pillow. Sleep. Sleep would help.

But strange dreams plagued him, tantalizing visions of Jon, what might have happened, what might still happen. A steady drumming ran beneath it, speeding up, louder and louder, until finally Martin sat up with a gasp, every inch of him on fire. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in his hands, and only then realized it wasn’t drumming. It was knocking. 

Martin scrambled for the door, fumbling with the lock, and tearing it open. On the other side was Jon, half-leaning against the door frame, face flushed and eyes dark with longing. Only then did Martin realize he hadn’t bothered to dress. 

“I’m sorry—”

The door slammed shut, and Jon was inside, not even bothering to lock it as he tore off his ratty t-shirt and faded jeans, growling in frustration when he realized he’d left his shoes on. He kicked them off, one flying across the room and slamming against a kitchen cupboard, before finally removing his pants and turning to Martin. 

The small part of Martin’s mind still capable of rational thought knew how abnormal this all was, that Jon’s hands shouldn’t be on him, one gripping his wrist and the other tracing spirals down his spine, all while pushing him towards his bed. By the time they reached it, the thought was gone. Martin fell back on the bed, and Jon straddled him, hands running down his chest. 

In the short span between the door and his bed, Martin had gotten hard, as Jon leaned down over him, a hand sliding up to cup his cheek, he saw Jon was as well. Was it the book? Or did that just make them want contact, and this was the result? But it didn’t matter, because Jon was drawing closer now, hair askew where Martin’s hand had tangled in it. Something he didn’t remember doing either. Then Jon’s lips were on his, Martin opening under the touch, moaning as Jon thrust his tongue into Martin’s mouth. It wasn’t even a good kiss, too messy and awkward, but it didn’t matter. Wherever they touched, his skin was cool, soothed by this release. 

One of Jon’s hand was gripping his bicep, hard enough to bruise, but Martin didn’t care, not when Jon was plastered against him, not when his own nails dug into Jon’s shoulders, and Jon ground down, and gasped into his mouth. It would be better if they used hands, better if they pulled apart a minute so Martin could wrap his palm around their cocks, stroking until they both came. But to do that would mean pulling away, and he almost cried at the thought.

So instead he matched Jon’s clumsy motions, burying his head into the crook of Jon’s neck, teeth digging into skin, like Jon had done to him the day before. Marking Jon as his, like he’d always wanted, and now Jon wanted it too, a moan escaping as their cocks brushed, gliding against each other and smoothed by sweat. It had been absent before, absent all this time, the heat always there but painfully dry. But now, now it eased their passage, the way they struggled against each other. 

“Martin,” Jon said, fingers weaving their way through Martin’s damp hair, dragging his head up to bring their lips together again. 

In his eyes, Martin saw the same fires that had driven him to this, and something else underneath it all. Then Jon groaned and shuddered, and Martin felt the spurt of come against his stomach. But even finished, Jon continued to hold him, stroking his hair as Martin followed, moaning into Jon’s neck.

And then it was gone. The flames snuffed out like they’d never been there, and all Martin felt was yawning horror in their wake. What had they done? What had he done? 

He couldn’t see Jon’s face, because he’d turned his head aside, letting it rest on Martin’s shoulder, and staring out into the room.

“I’m sorry.” Martin was crying. He hated it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched the book, it’s my fault.”

And it wasn’t like he expected Jon to push him away. To ridicule him. To mock him. Underneath that porcupine exterior, Jon was a kind man. A good man. But what he didn’t expect was Jon to lift his head, and place a perfunctory kiss on his lips.

“This isn’t—It’s not how I would have wanted things to go. The world is ending, and I thought, well. Maybe if it didn’t, we could…” Martin was pressed so close he could feel Jon swallow, then press his lips against Martin’s cheek. Then Jon did pull away, rolling off him onto the bed, still close enough their arms touched. 

“Go for coffee?” Martin said. He lifted his head enough to give Jon a watery smile, one that widened as Jon’s own lips twitched up in response. After a moment’s hesitation, he wove their fingers together, and Jon’s smile grew.

“Something like that.” He licked his lips. They were dry and cracked, just like Martin’s. How had he not noticed that before? “I heard the tape. I mean, a tape. I knew before this. How you felt.”

He knew. That Martin liked him, that he cared far too much. He’d known and he’d been kind. Spent time with Martin. Hovered. Showing that he cared, in all the ways he could. 

“Are you going to go?” Martin’s hand tightened around Jon’s, and Jon squeezed back in response. 

“I—There’s a lot of work to do. End of the world and all.” Jon was biting his lip. Martin leaned in, and stopped him with a kiss.

“I know,” he said as pulled back. Smiling, and only a little sad. 

“But the world won’t end tomorrow.” 

His heart lifted. Jon didn’t get up. Before his courage could fail him, he reached out and wrapped an arm around Jon’s waist, tucking Jon against his chest. They were messy and sticky and gross, but all Martin felt was warm. Not the burning, desperate heat from before. But the crackle of a tiny hearth fire, lighting up the darkest night.

Jon was stiff, and awkward, jabbing Martin in the stomach with his elbow as they struggled to get comfortable. But when he intertwined their fingers again, it felt right. Good. In the morning, Jon would probably complain about the mess. They’d stumble around each other, and stumble over their words, and maybe find it harder to say all the things they should.

But the world wouldn't end tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any typos, but with a late treat I wanted to get it out sooner rather than later! Please let me know if you see any, I'll be happy to fix them.


End file.
